The dead men dream but the keen men sleep.
The quiet woman pulls the cotton from the deep.
The deep is the reason why the green sea moves,
with the spinning of the people and the earth that it soothes.
The dead men dream but the poets consume.
The woman takes a break and stares at the moon.
The moon is the reason why the black sea turns,
with the eating of the shore and the mind that it burns.
The dead men dream but the mad men drive.
The woman pulls a muscle and does another dive.
The dive is the reason why the rough sea sings
with the swimming of a couple and their broken wings.
I will find you,
and somewhere down there the density
of words will crush us.